


Under the Surface

by amalcolm



Category: British Comedy RPF, QI RPF
Genre: Alan tries to be comforting, Drinking & Talking, Gen, Just good buddies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-04
Updated: 2014-02-04
Packaged: 2018-01-11 04:38:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1168799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amalcolm/pseuds/amalcolm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alan feels the need to check on Stephen after something insensitive is said in an episode of QI.  He ends up being the one that's reassured.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under the Surface

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on the episode "Gifts," in which panelist Jan Ravens says that most comedians are quite miserable in real life. No doubt she did not realise it came off as a bit insensitive, but when I saw it I had a desperate need to comfort Stephen. Since I can't, I had Alan do it for me.

_Don’t say anything_ , he told himself. Jan was looking at him quite oddly, still wearing that ridiculous cardigan that reminded Alan of the foam shrimps he used to buy at the sweetshop, and probably wondering why he hadn’t answered. “You okay?” She asked, slinging her handbag over her shoulder and hesitating at the entrance to the greenroom. 

“Right.” He scratched at his ear and cocked his head slightly. The words ‘cuntish thing to say’ were desperate to escape from his mouth. “See, thing is”—

She waited, fiddling with her mobile now, her face slowly going from ‘bit concerned’ to ‘God, he is as slow as he appears on the show.’

Alan forced his mouth shut. He had years of practise with not saying the obvious thing. _Don’t fall for Fry’s honeytrap_. “Yeah, not important. Never mind. G’night, then.” He pushed past, avoiding her stare of incredulity and exasperation. God knows he was used to those as well.

XXX

It was a Tuesday and there seemed every reason to be out of the studio as quickly as possible. He was feeling a bit tired—the way he always did as the season neared its halfway point. At the start, there was always anticipation, the easiness of being around familiar faces and the comfort of routine. And at the end of course, relief and celebration of another series done. But in the middle. Well, there was only carry on, retakes, look here, no, say that again, bloody hell, again, and fuckingjesusreallyanothertakewiththesoddingbuzzers? So he really did want to be done. To go home to his wife, have a bite, a shag (or a wank depending on her mood) and fall into bed to be back the next day for retakes. 

But instead he swiped a bottle of water from the fridge and slowly ambled about backstage until he got to Stephen’s dressing room. He knocked on the door. He was always one of the last to leave. 

“Yes?”

 _He’s my friend_ , he told himself. _I’m opening my mouth when I shouldn’t, but he is my friend._

“It’s Alan.”

There was a pause. Alan actually thought for a second Stephen was going to tell him to sod off. He’d no idea why. He’d probably never told anyone that that ever, unless as a joke. But he knew Stephen well enough to know that sometimes he struggled. Sometimes it was hard to keep it under the surface. 

A loud, cheery voice called out. “Alan, dear, are you coming in or not?”

Well, he wasn’t struggling _too_ much then. 

Stephen was sitting crossways on the loveseat that occupied one side of the room, jacket, tie and shoes removed, but otherwise still in one of his garish filming suits. A laptop was open at the coffee table in front of him, a mobile next to it, a mountain of papers next to that. His asthma inhaler lay beside an ashtray, a vestige of his former smoking habit. 

An open bottle of Master of Malt was dangerously close to his outstretched fingers. Three or four bottles of Evian in various stages of assimilation were looking up at the man like worshipful fans from the floor. _I don’t know how he stands it_ , Alan thought. _I’d go mental if I couldn’t switch it off now and again_. Stephen looked up over the rims of his reading glasses. “Is something the matter?” He asked.

“I just...I was on my way out. Thought I’d look in. Make sure you were alright.”

“Well, that’s terribly thoughtful. How kind of you.” Stephen sat up and pushed the never-ending pile of crap away so that Alan could sit. “These papers are more prolific than a roomful of rabbits at a pornography convention. Can I get you anything? Some whisky?”

“Er...” Alan was still trying to wrap his head around the analogy. “Yeah, thanks.” _Roomful of rabbits...Christ_. He accepted a glass that smelled of smoke and flame. When it met his tongue, it melted away his resolve.

“Good show, today, d’you think?” 

Stephen downed the remains of his drink. “Oh, you know, Jimmy’s a dear and I always enjoy Clive. I thought the bit about the origins of jokes worked well, didn’t it? Yes, I know, we regressed into farting anecdotes but I suppose it’s a bit of give them what they want. I did think that the hybridogenesis was quite interesting, I hope it’s left in. But of course, not my discretion.”

“You liked me in that scold-y bridle thing, didn’t you?” Alan licked the roof of his mouth, remembering its taste of slightly corroded metal. 

Stephen laughed. “I didn’t want to say at the time, but it _did_ rather put ideas into my head.”

“Thought so.” He looked into the moist glass, tinged with amber-coloured dew. _Just say it already! Don’t be such a knob!_ “Saw Jan in the hall there, just before coming in.”

“Did you?” 

“Yeah, er...and I wanted to tell you—well, I hope that, you know, she didn’t upset you or anything. ‘Cause I think it was kinda ridiculous. Saying that about comedians being miserable all the time. With you sitting there an’ all. Christ. What a cunt.” 

_Yes, there. Well said Mr. Davies. Primary school children are more loquacious._

Stephen’s eyes seemed to brighten slightly and he blinked several times. “Oh, Alan, my dear boy, is that why you came to check on me?” He set his empty glass down and rose to his feet. “You...are a perfect lamb, you know that? Blimey, you thought I was upset because of what she said? And you...oh, Lord, I’m going to get all emotional now. Do you see what you’ve done?”

He was hugging him, not obnoxiously, but in the way that Stephen did with most people. He was naturally tactile with his friends and Alan was used to that, but he felt like a tit. 

He patted his shoulder a bit. “Well, it did hurt you. I could tell by your expression.”

“Alan, really...I’m going to call you a dear one last time and then I promise I’ll stop. No, seriously, she didn’t know. It wasn’t meant to be hurtful. I’m sure of that. It was just...she said it without thinking.”

Alan wondered if he was going to add ‘you know all about that,’ but he didn’t. “Just. Everyone in the blooming country knows about your struggles. Your...Christ, chlamydia or whatever. I mean, _think_ , why don’t you?”

“Chlamydia!” Stephen was hopeless was laughter now. “God, have I gotten an STD on top of everything else? Cyclothymia, Alan, is the term.”

Alan shrugged. He’d said it wrong on purpose. Stephen felt most comfortable when he was correcting him. And laughing of course. He enjoyed making him laugh. “You want go down the pub and have a drink? Or there’s this sports club I go to sometimes. They show a lot of classic football games. Tons of Gunners flattening the Canaries and things.”

“You certainly know how to tempt me, don’t you?” Stephen’s smile faded slightly as he looked about him. “Really, Alan, I would love nothing better. But I have so much to do. I have to go over these production notes for a meeting next week. I have this voice-over for some cartoon I haven’t even looked at yet. The proofs for my latest book are buried in that volcano over there. And I’m supposed to be helping Jo Laurie with a party for Hugh—it’s his 50th next month.” He sighed. “Dear me.” 

“That’s how you cope, isn’t it? Just always stay busy.” Alan fiddled with the belt loop on his trousers. Did it have another name, those loops? Probably Stephen would know if it did. “I can’t do that, me. Makes me go crazy if I can’t have a break.” He paused. “Why the fuck _are_ we all so sad, d’you reckon? Comedians, I mean.”

He suddenly realised that Jan’s comment had hit home for him as well. Stephen’s struggles were well known. His, well...possibly known by some but more private. He had his demons. He had to strap on the sword most days as well. Katie, his wife, had helped a lot with that. As had the years of therapy. But although he still thought it a cuntish thing to say on a national television show, _it probably was true_.

Stephen squeezed his friend’s shoulder. “D’you know what? Fuck the work. Let’s go and get completely and utterly pissed. God, I’d like that. I can’t remember the last time I did.” He began hunting about for his shoes. “Happy people don’t need to laugh at the world, Alan. We miserable bastards have to find the humour in everything we encounter. It’s how we cope. It’s our oxygen.” He grabbed his coat from under some folders on the floor and dropped his inhaler in his pocket. “And I have enough trouble continuing to breathe some days as it is.”

“I’ve got my Alfa outside,” Alan said, feeling giddy and excited for some reason. “Let me just text Katie and tell her.”

“And how is Mrs Davies these days?”

“Well, she just found out about this sort of abnormal growth thing.” He grinned. “But the doctor reckons another seven months or so should see it right.” 

Stephen’s clapped his hands together. “Oh, my dear. Really? Alan, I do congratulate you! How long have you known?”

“Just since this last week-end, actually.” He hadn’t intended to tell anyone yet. No-one knew. Not even their families. But he had wanted to tell someone. And it felt good for Stephen to be the one. “I’m terrified, if I’m being honest.”

Stephen kissed him then, thankfully just on his forehead, somewhere amongst the tangles of curls. Alan blushed, thankful that no one was about to see that. “Steady on, Stephen. Christ. I’ll find the bloody scold bridle, swear to God.”

He laughed and shook a finger at him. “You are going to be a brilliant father. The best fathers are the ones that are always having a go with life. They appreciate it more, I think, because they fought so hard. My Godchildren...Hugh’s children, you know, well...he’s the same way. Not as bad as me, of course, but he’s seen his fair share of the darkness. And he’s a wonderful father.” Stephen closed the door to his dressing room firmly.

“Do you ever want kids?”

Stephen chuckled. “The natural process through which they are typically obtained did not—does not—much appeal to me.”

“Yeah, but—come on, that’s not the only way. These days.”

“Oh, I know, I’m just being a tit. Honestly, Alan, I can’t see it. I love children. I love my nephews, my Godchildren. But to have something completely mine, that I am solely responsible for...epic karma would suggest that I would end up with a child exactly how I was. The horror that would be.” 

He hadn’t read Stephen’s book, though there was a copy somewhere in his flat. He reckoned Katie had read it, she was a big reader. But he gathered enough bits of info just from things he’d said on the show that he’d been a little monster. Alan himself had hardly been an angel. Always nicking things, lying, getting sent down. Was it something like a prerequisite, if you were destined for fame you had to be a little shit as a child? “I hope the baby ends up...a plumber. Or some such. Not like us.”

Stephen waved good-night to some of the doormen. “Well, personally I hope your child turns out exactly like”—

 _Oh, Fuck’s sake, don’t say me_. Alan cringed. 

“Your wife,” Stephen finished. “Except with your lovely hair.”

They were outside now, a warm evening that smelled cleaner than usual. Alan took a deep breath, his lungs filling with smog, pollution, a bit of Thames and hopefully a bit of oxygen. He looked up at his friend. “Thanks,” he said.

Stephen’s large hand clamped down on his shoulder. “My dearest Alan, you are more than welcome. And I can hardly wait to go shopping for little booties and stuffies and whatnot.”

 _Stuffies_? He could already see his flat littered with Wombels and Dora the Explorer, or whatever little kids played with these days. The only thing he wanted it to have was the baby-size Arsenal reproduction kit. He couldn’t wait until it was old enough to take to a game. “You know what?” Stephen looked at him. “I still say it was a cuntish thing to say.”

He laughed. “D’you know, I could not agree more.”


End file.
